


The Eye of the Beholder

by EventHorizon



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Body Image, Chubby Mycroft, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-08 00:14:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3188552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EventHorizon/pseuds/EventHorizon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft has had a very hard several months and, to his shame, gained a good bit of weight from stress eating.  Of course, one of the first people he sees as things begin to wind down is the man he considers the most gorgeous thing to walk the planet - Greg Lestrade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Eye of the Beholder

Awe-inspiring.  Truly he was awe-inspiring.  Mycroft looked at his reflection in the mirror and was absolutely certain that this was the face that would lead the troops to their victory, so long as the troops were portly pastries filled with custard and slathered in chocolate.  Gone was his clean profile with the razor’s-edge jawline, as well as the defined lines and angles of his face and in its place was… a soggy dumpling one received from a decidedly substandard purveyor of Asian cuisine.  And if he looked down now at the way his overfilled flesh was pressing against his shirt, the slight bit of extra motion would likely prompt a button explosion which, fortunately, his jowls would serve to shield his face from the ensuing shrapnel.

It had been a stressful several months and, despite successfully navigating the path from childhood to adulthood, he had never lost the instinctive urge to reach for food when stress was high.  And the more luscious and delectable the food, the more calming the effect.  Twelve soup pots filled with salad would not satisfy with near the success as a single piece of his favorite chocolate.  Perhaps if he added a barrel of whipped cream to the salad the scales might be tipped, but… well, there was nothing for it now.  It would be a call to the tailor tomorrow to provide a new round of ‘comfortable’ garments and the implementation of yet another stringent mealtime regimen.  And in-between meal regimen.  And prior to bed regimen.  And the standard apology gifts to his staff for weathering his foul mood during the next highly-regimented weeks of his life.

__________

      “Mr. Holmes?  Detective Inspector Lestrade is here.  You asked me to…”

      “Yes.  Please send him in.”

And please read my mind which is pointedly shouting at you to craft a very convincing excuse to send the delightful man on his way so he is not sickened to the point of emesis by my ghastly appearance.  Please realize that to a man of such beauty, the quivering slug doing its best to flatten this £1200 chair was likely toxic and there would be a need for immediate life-saving measures the moment his breathtaking form crossed the threshold.  Admittedly, the Detective Inspector had witnessed a number of his previous upswings in girth, but none had been as substantial as this one.  Truly, this day was going splendidly.  At any moment, the skies would most certainly be filled with missiles and the first tidal wave to strike the British seaboard would crash upon them.   At least the water would put out the fires from the missile barrage…

      “Mycroft!  Long time no… see.”

And there it was.  The pregnant pause, with pregnant being a very appropriate term in this case.  But, it was kind of Gregory to smile to take the sting out of the gravid gap in his sentence.  And _continue_ to smile… such a very dear man.  A genial and dear man whose smile was brighter than the flash from the most perfect diamond ever exposed to the sunshine.

      “And you, Gregory.  It has been a rather trying period, with little time for a turn in my attentions.  Please do have a seat.”

Mycroft gestured to the chair on the opposite side of his desk and tried not to sigh audibly as his guest languidly slid his body into the seat, which was the pleasant seat he reserved for valued guests and not the arse-destroyer he left in place for most of those who found themselves in his office for a meeting.

      “Oh, nice chair.  Much better than what I’ve got.  That one’s supposed to have that lumbar support, but all it seems to do is deform my spine into a big S-shape.  Now, what can I do for you?”

That chair would be burned.  Doused in petrol and burned.  Then sent to the scrapheap, hopefully, to meet its final and unrecoverable demise at the hands of a materials crusher.  How dare it cause his…the… Detective Inspector discomfort!  The man had a highly crucial job and strove continually to conduct it to the best of his abilities – a twisted vertebral column was not going to assist that in the least!

      “I simply wished to, shall we say, reconnect our lines of communication.  I value your input highly in matters concerning Sherlock and Doctor Watson and have not made myself available to that input of late.”

And, before he had realized that he had inflated to the size of the Hindenburg, may have hoped that his guest might suggest one of their occasional respites for tea.  Some tea, a small pastry and conversation richer than any of the stocks or bonds in his various portfolios.  Now, however… one does not sit for tea and pastry with a small moon that would likely begin attracting its own satellites in a scant few moments.  Nothing interferes with tea than more being assaulted by examples of space debris.

      “Oh.  Oh… ok.  Sherlock and John… ok.  They’re fine!  I’ve had a few cases to throw Sherlock’s way and they haven’t had him dodging knife-wielding maniacs or being run over by lunatic cabbies, so John’s been happy, too.”

Poor dearest Gregory and his stammered mutterings… so obviously hopeful that he would not be asked to continue conversation with the astronomical object currently altering the local gravitational field.  Perhaps he should put the Detective Inspector out of his misery and…

      “And what have you been up to, Mycroft?  Doesn’t sound like a lot of fun, but maybe you like being insanely busy.”

Oh, how wonderfully polite.  Kind and polite… and exquisitely crafted in both body and mind.  Perhaps after a few months of celery and water, he could again justify fantasizing about the Adonis offering a considerate moment of casual discussion.

      “I do prefer a day of challenge to one of stagnation, but even I have my limits.”

Except in the area of butter and cream… on a scone or on a lovely plate of linguini… perhaps he should acquire a pair of budgies and name them Butter and Cream as a reminder of his personal demons.

      “Now, that’s something I understand.  Give me a good case, even if it chews me up and spits me out, rather than a day at my desk.  Great minds think alike, I guess.”

  Oh, do not grin at me, my dear.  If I return it as I desperately long to do, I have no confidence the muscles controlling my lips could begin to lift the surrounding bulk and you shall worry greatly than I have suffered some form of debilitating stroke.

      “And on those lines, I’ve had a pretty full day already, so what say you and I make a run for tea and have ourselves a little break.  Even you take breaks, right?”

Rarely.  However, when the offer was made by… NO!  No, he could not be seen in public with this man!  The humiliation Gregory would suffer being seen escorting a circus elephant to tea would surely destroy his career.

      “I regret that I am not able to enjoy your very kind offer at this time, Gregory.  I have a distressingly full schedule and cannot be away from my desk.”

      “Full?  Not even a little moment?  I’m sure you booked me in for a bit, so if we leave now… here, let me see.”

Mycroft gaped in horror as Lestrade reached across the desk as if to grab the planner lying open next to Mycroft’s hand and the elder Holmes quickly leaned forward in his chair to forestall the theft.

      “Gregory!  Do not trouble your…”

 _Plink_.

Both men looked down at the small button that had landed on the desk after committing a suicidal leap off of Mycroft’s shirt.  Lestrade changed the trajectory of his reach and moved to take up the button, prompting Mycroft to nearly lunge across this desk to confiscate the evidence.

 _Plink_.

A second button joined its brother in a leap to death and rested several inches closer to Lestrade than the first.  Mycroft tried to draw in a breath to speak, but found himself completely unable to do so.  No… not this.  How would Gregory ever agree to see, let alone speak to him, after this?

      “You bastard.”

      “Gregory… I can explain…”

      “You fucking did that on purpose.”

What?

      “I… I beg your pardon.”

Mycroft stared at Lestrade, whose eyes were blazing with looked very much like anger and directed… Mycroft traced the Detective Inspector’s eyes and found they were fixed on the expanse of pale flesh his traitorous buttons had exposed.  This was… there were fourteen firearms in the room and none of them was of a sufficiently large caliber to put the size of hole in his skull that Mycroft desperately wanted.

      “Gregory… I cannot begin to…”

Lestrade was up and out of his chair with a nearly violent push and Mycroft watched him do something no one else in the history of his tenure in this office had ever done – he walked over and locked the door from the inside.

      “Gregory?”

      “You can’t do that to me, you bastard!  You know… you knew full well what it would do to me!”

The second thing no one had ever done was rip Mycroft out of his own chair and push him sharply until his back was pressed against the wall.

      “Gre…whmf.”

Two firm lips locked onto Mycroft’s own and the bureaucrat felt a powerful shock of electricity race down his spine and settle hotly in a certain area that was being agreeably compressed by the warm and muscular body intent on fusing them into one form.

      “You… bastard.  You set me up.  You know… you _know_ how much I love you looking like this.  So gorgeous…”

Another hard and fiery kiss and Mycroft was surprised his knees were still sustaining his weight.

      “Gregory, I…”

      “No.  No excuses.  You know how hot I get watching you nibble at the little cakes we get at that tea shop you like.  So bloody hot and I can’t do a thing about it.   You’re spectacular no matter how much you weigh, but when you’re like this… so soft… I don’t know what word they use for men when they’re voluptuous, when they have curves, but when you’re that word… I know you’ve seen me trying to hide how hard I get when I see you like this.  When I want to run my hands all over that beautiful skin and let them trace every curve, every swell… you know all that and you set me up!  What’d you think I’d do… just sit and do nothing when I was seeing _this_ …”

Lestrade ran his hand into the gap in Mycroft’s shirt and stroked the slightly plumped breasts, releasing a small moan and shifting his hips slightly so Mycroft was highly aware from the very firm erection meeting his own that this was not some form of performance.

      “Well, you play with me; I’ll play with you.  If you want me to stop, you tell me and I will, but I really, really hope you don’t.”

Stop?  Was that even a word in the English language?  Mycroft could only nod his agreement to continue and, quickly, strong fingers were prying open the buttons of his trousers.  In the next heartbeat, Lestrade was doing the same to the buttons of the crisp, white shirt and then he was sliding down the politician’s body like it was a fire pole to settle on his knees and continue freeing as much of Mycroft’s flesh as he could.  With a very audible slurp, Lestrade took his long-awaited prize into his mouth and Mycroft was certain that the bottom had fallen out of his world and he was falling/flying/floating in a way that was utterly unique in his experience.  And there were hands… hands running lovingly over his stomach and rump and thighs… it was intoxicating.  No one had ever made him feel so desirable, so appealing, but the man currently worshiping his body made him feel that and so much more.  When he could finally crack open his eyes, Mycroft made the critical mistake of looking down at Lestrade who was looking up at him with purely naked lust in his eyes and that was the final push to send the most beautiful person Lestrade had ever seen crashing into an orgasm so intense he was certain his muscles would ache the rest of the day.  As Mycroft gasped for breath and wallowed in the endorphins flooding his mind, part of his consciousness was aware of gentle kisses being laid over the skin that Lestrade’s hands had stroked and his clothing was being restored to some semblance of order.

      “That’s my Mycroft.  Flushed and breathless and so sexy I wish we were in bed so I could go at you again and again all day long.”

This kiss wasn’t hard, it was perfectly tender and deep and the mixed flavor of his lover’s mouth and his own release was now the best thing to ever grace Mycroft’s tongue.  Until he was able to repay this beautiful man in kind, of course.

      “It seems that I was quite mistaken, my dear Gregory.  My schedule is clear for the remainder of the day.”

      “And I bet you have big comfy bed at home, don’t you?”

      “Quite big and quite comfortable… rather like myself.”

He had never had the confidence to comment on his own appearance when he wore this many pounds, but now… now those pounds did not seem like something to be feared.

      “No, love… nothing’s that wonderful.  But I’ll settle for second best if it gives me better access to the _very _best.  You got a car waiting?”__

      “Always.”

      “Then lead on.  And thank you, Mycroft.  If you hadn’t made a move… I don’t know if I’d ever have had the courage… ever been able to tell you how I felt.”

      “You’re quite welcome, Gregory.  And now we may both enjoy exploring those feelings.  Yours and mine both.”

Yes, perhaps the thanks were not completely his to own, but Mycroft would keep that secret for now.  What was a little white lie between very good friends…

**Author's Note:**

> This was written after a comment on tumblr about the need for some chubby Mycroft. Button-popping may have been mentioned, as well, and who could pass that up?


End file.
